God Rest Ye All Sherlockians
by MadameGiry25
Summary: Let nothing you dismay! I'm here to offer you a story every single day! A collection of responses for this year's Advent Calendar challenge put on by Hades Lord of the Dead. I make no apologies. Day 25: "Holmes throws a Christmas party for the Baker Street Irregulars."
1. Watson Moves Out

**Author's Note: **

**I may be insane for attempting this, but here's my contribution to the 2012 December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness! Hades Lord of the Dead is being completely amazing and organizing this for those of us in the Sherlock Holmes fandom. **

**We will be given a prompt assigned by one of the other authors participating in the challenge every day in December and it will be our task to write something based on it. With some luck, this will (hopefully) be updated daily for your reading pleasure!**

**Without further ado, here's December 1****st****'s prompt assigned by Rockztar: "Watson is moving out of 221B, write a 221B about this" **

**[A 221B is a oneshot that is exactly 221 words and the last word begins with the letter B.]**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

As if it wasn't bad enough that he was moving out of 221B, he had to pack up all of his things and get them ready to be moved to the new house. Unfortunately, that meant that he would have to find his belongings before he would be able to pack them. He stared at the front room that he shared with Holmes with a feeling of dismay. As typical as ever, Holmes had felt no need to clean up after himself and the flat was in shambles; Watson was fairly certain that the flat was actually worse off than normal.

"Holmes!" he called out, attempting to wade through a large stack of papers. "Holmes, this mess of yours is completely intolerable."

"You've never complained about it before," said Holmes dryly from his preferred chair.

Watson chose not to touch that remark. "Holmes, how in the world do you expect me to locate my possessions when the room is in this state?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow and traced his lips with the stem of the pipe, looking expectantly at him.

Watson shook his head. "Would that be jealousy, Holmes?"

The man shrugged. "That's one way of putting it. In any case, your Mrs. Watson will thank me."

"How's that?"

He chuckled. "Why, Watson! Wherever would she store all of your belongings?"


	2. Norbury

**The December 2****nd**** prompt as assigned by Ennui Enigma: Norbury**

**Inspired by Agatha Christie's The Third Floor Flat**

* * *

When one has been acquainted with Mr. Sherlock Holmes for any length of time, it is plain to see that any boredom he encounters is potentially a lethal situation. And, although I would love to be able to say otherwise, Mr. Sherlock Holmes experiences boredom on a regular basis. That being said, it takes a great deal of patience to share a flat, not to mention a healthy disregard for tidiness.

On one of these dreaded occasions, I decided that I had had enough of Holmes moping about the flat, my army revolver at full cock. (I must confess that I have no idea how he managed to find the bloody thing, let alone any ammunition)

"Holmes, you really need to look beyond this attitude," I said, dodging as he swung around, narrowly missing my head with the revolver; I knew that my newspaper would hardly be an ideal shield in this situation. "You're going to be the death of us both."

"What exactly do you suggest?" asked Holmes, still examining the weapon in his hands as though trying to decide upon a worthy target. "I have no case. I haven't even received potential, dull clients; therefore I did not have the opportunity of turning them down. That leaves me with very few options in life, Watson."

I scowled at him; Holmes pivoted and the revolver swung about again, and I reached out to snatch it from his fingers. Setting it down on the table, I crossed my arms. "For a man with such an incredible brain, you are incredibly close minded."

He looked annoyed now that his toy had been taken away. "What do you suggest, Watson?" he repeated. "All that matters is the work. How many times must I tell you this? I couldn't just accept any case. It has to be worthy of my brain."

This was a string of excuses that I had heard time and time again. My gaze fell to the newspaper as I tried to think of a comeback; something caught my eye, and I strained to get a better look. "What about this, Holmes?"

He snatched the newspaper from me, trying to find the piece in question. "What about what?"

I stood, pointing over the top of the newspaper at the advert that I had discovered. It was an announcement for a play that was to be staged tonight. A murder mystery. "What do you say we go to this? You might enjoy it."

Holmes tossed the paper aside and shook his head, throwing his arms up in annoyance. "Are you serious, Watson?" he asked, looking at me with an incredulous expression. "This is a _play_."

"And what's wrong with that? I say that you might enjoy it."

He looked wounded. "Are you saying that my brain has been idle for so long that it will bow to a mere drama in order to become fully stimulated once more? I say that such a thing is not possible!"

I sighed, picking up the paper from where it had landed after the toss. "Why shouldn't we go?"

"Because it's an amateur production, most likely written by an amateur playwright. Not worthy of my time."

"Do you think that you would be unable to solve it?" I challenged, not able to help myself.

He drew himself up, looking annoyed. "I never said that," he said, crossing his arms. "I happen to know that I would be able to solve such a case after the first act. At the very latest. But that is beside the point."

"I think that you should prove that theory," I said, crossing my arms so that I mirrored him. "I'll bet you ten pounds that you can't solve this case."

It was an irresistible bet, even for him. He looked at me for a long moment, and I could see the conflict in his mind. "I'll take you on," he said finally. "I do hope that you are prepared to pay up, Doctor. That is quite a large sum of money."

"I'm aware of how much money it is," I said, knowing that it would be worth it to have a human flat mate for a few hours.

"What time is the show?" asked Holmes.

"In two hours from now," I said after having checked the newspaper. "Shall I send someone for the tickets?"

"Hardly necessary," said Holmes, retreating to the bedroom to dress. "Such a show as this is unlikely to be sold out."

"Of course," I said, a glint crossing my face. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson to send someone round for them.

* * *

Personally, I found the play to be quite enjoyable. I may not have been a genius criminologist, but the plot was enjoyable nonetheless. Once we reached the intermission, Holmes quickly scribbled something down on the corner of the program, tore the corner off, and handed it to me.

"Don't look at this until we reach the end of the play," he said, pocketing his pen.

"What is it?" I asked as I slipped the paper into my own pocket.

"The name of the murderer, of course."

* * *

Holmes kept his triumphant air throughout the last act of the play, safe and smug in the knowledge that his prediction had been correct. I could see that he was still absorbing the information of the play, but that his mind was quite far off. No one could say that he was not confident.

Then, we reached the end of the play. The actor playing the detective strutted his way across the stage in a manner that was faintly reminiscent of Holmes himself. He spoke out boldly, very proud of the fact that he had solved the case. And he began to reveal how it was all done.

As he did, I sneaked a peak at Holmes, seeing that he had returned from the land of his thoughts and was now paying close attention to the play. And he was looking extremely confused. When I tapped his arm to see what the matter was, he whispered for me to take out the slip that he had previously scribbled on. I did so.

_Jeeves – the butler_

I looked at the slip, at Holmes, at the stage, and back at the slip in bewilderment. I had not been expecting it to end like that at all.

* * *

"That playwright is an idiot!"

Holmes threw his hat and scarf on his bed, his furious voice carrying out to the main room. He shed his coat and returned to where I was standing, his face betraying just how angry he was.

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I asked, trying not to make the situation any worse.

"We were not given all the facts!" he cried, flopping down in his favorite armchair. "The facts as presented pointed to the butler. That idiot of a playwright had the nerve to introduce characters that were never in the play before ten minutes before the end of the story! I cannot solve such a case if I am not told all of the facts! It's like that imbecile chose the least likely character and then rendered them a murderer just so that we wouldn't guess that it was them!"

I carefully removed my own hat, not quite sure how to respond to this one. "It is a piece of fiction, Holmes," I said finally. "A story."

His eyes gleamed with annoyance. "That is beside the point, Watson!"

I shrugged. "I believe that it was ten pounds that we agreed on, Holmes."

He scowled like a small child, but he crossed over to his desk to retrieve his checkbook. As he began to write the amount down, I couldn't resist adding: "Norbury, Holmes."

He tore the check out of the book and slapped it into my hand. "I hardly think that this is the time, Watson."

I chuckled, sliding the check into my pocket and making my way up to my room to allow him a chance to calm down.

Perhaps it was only right that Holmes had now experienced what angry mystery readers go through all the time, I decided. Yes, that only seems right. I began to laugh, sitting down on my bed. The ten pounds hardly mattered.

Holmes had definitely learned something that night.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**For anyone who doesn't know, in "The Adventure of the Yellow Face", Holmes ran into a case that he was unable to solve because he was thinking a bit too highly of his abilities. Once he found the true answer, he asked Watson to say "Norbury" to him any time that he ran into similar circumstances.**

**Hope you enjoyed!**


	3. The Bow

**The December 3****rd**** Prompt as assigned by Ennui Enigma: Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft have a conversation.**

**All dialogue. Just because. I make no excuses for this one. Not to be taken very seriously.**

* * *

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson."

"Why, good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid that your brother isn't home at the moment. Went off at the crack of dawn with the doctor. I really don't know when they'll return, but I will let them know that you called."

"Actually, I didn't come here to speak to my brother."

"Oh?"

"No, I… I wanted to speak with you."

"Speak with me, Mr. Holmes? What about?"

"May I sit down?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Whatever can I do for you?"

"I have a favor to ask of you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Well, I'll certainly do anything I can."

"I'm very glad. I was wondering… well, Sherlock was wondering…. if you could be persuaded to…"

"You look dreadfully uncomfortable, Mr. Holmes. Come now, out with it. If I could be persuaded to what, exactly?"

Well… Sherlock was wondering if you would be willing to remove the rather large, red bow that you have adorning the door to his flat."

"But why? What's wrong with a little Christmas cheer?"

"Oh, I agree with you wholeheartedly. It's just Sherlock-"

"Your brother asked you to ask me this on his behalf? Whatever for?"

"Well, he thought that it would be better coming from me. He thought that you might not take it personally that way."

"I don't believe it!"

"Mycroft? I trust that you've spoken to Mrs. Hudson like I had requested."

"Mr. Holmes! What exactly do you think you're playing at?"

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. I did not realize that you were still here."

"Sherlock, I don't think that now is the time-"

"You two are just as bad as each other! Imagine, not appreciating a bit of Christmas cheer!"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft, will you accompany me upstairs?"

"Of course, Sherlock."

"Have you actually seen the bow in question, brother mine?"

"No, I must admit that I have not."

"Allow me to assure you that it is indeed hideous."

"Good gracious, Sherlock. You didn't tell me that it was _pink_."

"What did I tell you, Mycroft? This needs to be removed at all costs. What will the clients think of me when they see this?"

"I can only imagine. But I assure you that I will redouble my efforts to get this… decoration removed."

"Thank you, Mycroft. I sincerely appreciate your efforts."

* * *

**Like I said, no excuses or apologies for this one. Make of it what you will. **


	4. A Secret Talent

**The December 4****th**** prompt as assigned by Ennui Enigma: Watson reveals a secret talent.**

**Saying anything more would spoil this lovely piece…**

* * *

"I find facial hair to be quite distinguished, don't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock crossed his arms, looking at his brother in amazement. "Perhaps, on some people, Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes looked his brother over with a slightly amused expression. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, brother mine, that facial hair is not for everyone."

"I happen to think that it looks quite handsome," said Mycroft, catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the coffee pot.

"That is open to interpretation," said Holmes dryly. "In your case, however, it looks a quite ridiculous. Why did you feel the need to color it like that?"

Mycroft stroked the coal black mustache that clashed horribly with his greying hair. "Don't you think that it makes me look younger, Sherlock?"

"If that is what you call younger, I weep for the future of humanity. Don't you realize that it looks like you fixed a dead animal on your upper lip?"

The elder Holmes brother drew himself up as though his posture alone could prove the younger brother incorrect. "I beg to differ, Sherlock. Just because you have no sense of style. Your flat mate sports an elegant mustache and I've never known you to complain about him."

"That is because facial hair suits Watson. You on the other hand…"

"It suits him?" echoed Mycroft. "How can you be so sure? How do you define 'suits' him?"

"The good doctor understands how to keep such a thing neat, tidy, and good looking. In any case, some people look better with such things than others."

"Would you prefer that I shaved it off, Sherlock?" said Mycroft, crossing his arms.

"I must admit that I would."

Mycroft got to his feet, pulling his jacket straight. "Very well," he said with an expression of boredom. "Then I will not subject you to the sight that is the 'dead animal' on my upper lip."

"Thank you, brother mine."

* * *

"What happened?" Mycroft Holmes wanted to know as the door to the flat closed so that he was alone in the hall with the man who had just exited the flat.

Watson pulled the large jacket from his slim figure and handed it to Mycroft, picking up the layers of padding that fell on the floor as he did so. "I rather think that this went much better than expected."

"He didn't suspect anything?"

Watson grinned. "No, Mycroft, I don't believe that he suspected a thing."

Mycroft chuckled quietly, one eye on the door of the flat to make sure that his brother was still inside. "Well done, Doctor," he sniggered.

Watson looked pleased with himself as he continued to pick up the padding. He began to move up the stairs so that he could change into his own clothing, looking back at Mycroft with an expression of triumph. "That was a rather entertaining experiment, Mycroft."

"Oh, Doctor," called Mycroft. "Don't forget to wash the dye out of your mustache. It really does look like a dead animal."


	5. An Old War Wound

**The December 5th prompt as assigned by Sparky Dorian: Watson's injury comes back to haunt him**

**Partially inspired by Aleine Skyfire.**

* * *

Thunder and lightning

The patter of rain on stones

London in the rain

* * *

A man like Watson

Shouldn't think of living here

The cold and the wet

* * *

Subject to such aches

An honourable war wound

Pain caused by the wet

* * *

It aches in the cold

And it throbs during a storm

Always such a twinge

* * *

He feels little things

Like a change in the weather

They cause discomfort

* * *

So much frustration

He wonders why he lives here

At this location

* * *

But he is Watson

Resident of Baker Street

And brother to Holmes

* * *

He looks and he smiles

As long as he is with Holmes

He is always home


	6. An Unusual Case

**The December 6****th**** prompt, as assigned by mrspencil: Watson has an unusual medical case to deal with.**

* * *

"I tell you, he's planning to murder me!"

The middle aged man staggered over the cobblestones, his eyes mad with terror, screaming to anyone who would listen. All around him, those who lined the street looked over at him with a feeling of unease. Mothers shepherded their children close, urging them into the house so that they wouldn't see the insane man; even the children couldn't miss the deafening scream.

The man threw himself at a young woman, who cried out as he clawed at her, his eyes not focused on her face. "You simply must help me! He's going to kill me! Please! Don't let him kill me!"

The young woman looked relieved as a young man came to her rescue, pulling him off of her and forcing the delusional man to look at him. "What do you mean by this?" he asked, looking sternly. "What's going on?"

His tone only served to infuriate the man further. "Please! Help me! He's going to kill me!"

"Who is?"

"Can't you see him?" the man's arm flailed out behind him at the now empty street. "He's right behind me! He's coming for me?"

"There's no one there, good sir," said the young man, trying to gain some control over the situation.

"But there is!"

The young man's face grew annoyed and he pushed the beggar away, gathering the woman up and pointing her away from him. "Come with me, miss," he said, casting a disdainful glance back at the man. "I will make sure that he doesn't cause you any more trouble."

By now, the entire street was almost completely empty; no one wanted anything to do with this madman. No one but one man.

Dr. Watson looked at the beggar, and he couldn't help but feel for him. The beggar was flailing and sobbing, screaming to the sky of a plot to murder him. Screaming of an invisible man. Common sense told him that it would be best to leave him alone and continue on home. But another voice within told him that this man needed his help.

He tentatively approached the beggar, his expression one of kindness. "Excuse me," he said softly.

The man continued his incessant screaming, not able to hear Watson. He gave no indication that he was aware of the fact that he wasn't alone.

"Excuse me," said Watson a little louder, now close enough to lay a hand on his shoulder.

The man jerked at the touch, his head whipping around. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice sounding raw and pained. "What do you want?"

"I want to help you," said Watson. "Are you all right?"

Tears began to stream down the beggar's face, and he hiccupped. "He's coming to murder me."

"Who is?" asked Watson gently.

"You can't see him either, can you." It was a statement, rather than a question. "No one can."

Watson kept his hand on the man's shoulder. "He frightens you. Doesn't he."

The beggar nodded. "I think I'm going mad, sir," he whispered. "I see things that no one else does. Can you help me?"

Watson was silent for a moment, looking the beggar over. And then he shook his head. "I don't know. However," he said as he pulled his tightly knit, grey scarf from around his throat. "I can offer you this. You look cold."

The beggar had no defense against the cold, and he looked at Watson's gift in awe. "Are you certain?" he asked, seeming afraid to take it from Watson's gloved fingers.

Watson nodded. "Yes. What's your name?"

The man paused in the process of wrapping the scarf around his throat. "Higgins. What is your name?"

"Watson."

"Thank you, Watson."

* * *

A few months later, Watson sat in his surgery after a long day of work, wishing that he could return home to a hot meal and a warm bed. But the pile of paperwork that sat on his desk wasn't showing any mercy on his wracked brain.

"Excuse me," said a familiar voice.

He looked up from the stack to see the very beggar that he had helped all those months ago. "Mr. Higgins?" he asked, getting up from his chair and shaking the man's hand.

This was not the Higgins that he had seen all those months ago. This man was smiling, and his full face showed the fact that he had been living in much better conditions. "I wanted to thank you, Doctor," he said, touching a hand to his throat. Watson could see that his scarf was still tied tightly around his neck. "I wanted to thank you for giving me a second chance. I'd never experienced kindness of that manner. I didn't think that I was worthy. But your gesture…" he broke off, a tear forming in his eye. "Your gesture gave me the second chance that I needed. And… I can't thank you enough."

Watson could only stare, a smile beginning to spread over his own features. "You're welcome, Mr. Higgins."


	7. White Christmas

**The December 7****th**** prompt as assigned by Ennui Enigma : Take any Christmas song and give it a Holmesian twist**

* * *

I'm dreaming of a quiet Christmas

Just like the ones I used to know

Without bright flashes,

Or errant crashes

And smoke leaking onto snow

* * *

I'm dreaming of a quiet Christmas

As all the chemical mishaps

Pile up around me

I sigh

For I know that turmoil's always nigh

* * *

I'm dreaming of a quiet Christmas

And I know that it is hopeless

I must sit and listen

As our flat trembles

And the landlady rants and rails at us

* * *

I'm dreaming of a quiet Christmas

Without that chemistry and crime

Such a burden for a

flat mate

But I know this will be my life

* * *

**Yeah, I wanted to make the rhyming work out a little better, but I'm a little strapped for time with finals approaching, so it'll have to do for the moment. (:**


	8. Christmas Tree

**The December 8****th**** prompt as assigned by Werepanther33: Christmas tree**

**Takes place during Blue Carbuncle, Granada!verse, from the POV of John Horner.**

* * *

There ain't no Christmas trees in jail.

Don't know why I expected one

Guess they don't expect the fellows to appreciate the effort

I think that's a right shame.

There's something about a Christmas tree

Something about those little ornaments and popcorn strings

It makes a man feel good inside

I bet that a Christmas tree would do those men a world of good

Just seeing it would remind them of home

Might even convince them to realize what they did wrong

When I saw there was no Christmas tree, I was so sad

Thinking about my wife and the boy and the girl

All alone, so close to Christmas

It's not right

I didn't do nothin' wrong

I shouldn't be here

And it's me what needs that Christmas tree more than anyone else


	9. Romantic Trash

**The December 9****th**** prompt as assigned by Spockologist: Holmes is caught reading one of those flowery novels he's always criticizing Watson over.**

**Another experiment in all dialogue!**

* * *

"Watson, I really must protest."

"Whatever is the matter, Holmes?"

"I cannot recommend that you continue to keep reading fiction of that kind."

"Fiction of what kind?"

"Romantic fiction, Watson."

"This isn't romantic fiction, Holmes. This is classic Gothic fiction."

"Watson, the subtitle of this said non-romantic piece is 'A Romance'."

"But that's just for show, Holmes. The Monk is indeed a classic."

"My friend, I cannot allow you to continue destroying your mind with cheap, literary trash."

"Literary trash? My dear fellow, I beg to differ. Have you actually read this book?"

"No, and I don't intend to."

"But, Holmes. If you were to read it, you'd understand that romantic fiction isn't as bad as you seem to think that it is."

"I do not believe that there is a piece of romantic fiction in existence that is not trash, Watson."

"Oh, is that so? I seem to recall a copy of Jane Eyre on your bedside table last night. I don't think that it was there just for show."

"Surely you don't believe that I was reading such a book, Watson."

"Then how do you explain the fact that it was on your bedside table?"

"It is a gift. A Christmas gift."

"For whom?"

"For Mrs. Hudson, if you must know. She rather enjoys stories of this kind."

"Does she indeed? Well, that's certainly news to me, Holmes."

"Watson, are you suggesting that I am telling you a falsehood? I can assure you that I have never been more sincere."

"Mmm, quite. I never said that you were not telling the truth."

"But I do believe that you were thinking that I was not telling the truth."

"Then I imagine that you will not mind if I am present when you give Mrs. Hudson this book?"

"….Of course not, friend Watson."

"And in the meantime, I strongly suggest that you put it away so that you do not take a chance of Mrs. Hudson seeing her gift before Christmas. We wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea, now would we?"

"I shall take that advice to heart, Watson. In fact, I expect that she probably saw it when she was bringing me hot water last night."

"Such a tragedy, Holmes."

"Indeed. I think that I may have to choose a new gift for her."

"Terrible, Holmes."

"I believe that I will go to the shop straightaway and return this book. Perhaps a bouquet of flowers would suit our dear landlady better than romantic fiction."

"Flowers? As a Christmas gift and nothing else?"

"I didn't say that it was a good idea, Watson. Or, indeed, that it was final. I must think on this now that you have poked such holes in my theory."

"I do apologize, Holmes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go back to reading my romantic trash."

"I cannot recommend you continue to keep reading fiction of that kind…"

* * *

**And thus the cycle begins again!**


	10. A Scheme

**The December 10****th**** prompt as assigned by SheWhoScrawls: Holmes can't decide what he wants for dinner. Watson and Mrs. Hudson think he has crossed a line, and they create a scheme…**

**Could be considered a bonus scene to Sickening Sport, though it works as a standalone as well. (:**

* * *

"Mr. Holmes!"

Mrs. Hudson swept up the fragments of china, her expression one of annoyance. "Mr. Holmes, I must say that I have had quite enough of this," she called out, knowing that he could hear her even from behind the closed door of his bedroom. "If you need containers for your chemical experiments, you will have to go to the shops and purchase your own. You are not using my china any longer."

No answer came from behind the closed door, and she scowled, scooping up the shards and putting them into the empty hearth bucket for transportation. "Mr. Holmes!" she called out again.

"It won't do any good, Mrs. Hudson," said Watson from his position in the chair, newspaper in hand. "He's not listening."

She crossed her arms, and turned to the doctor. "I've had quite enough, Dr. Watson," she said as though he hadn't just been present to her ravings. "He cannot continue breaking my china in this manner. I don't even know how he manages to find it."

"No hiding place is safe from Holmes when he has his mind set," said Watson dryly. "But, I do believe that there is something we can do about it."

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, drying her hands on her apron as he poked his head around the kitchen door.

"Mrs. Hudson, the good doctor wishes for me to inquire what you will be making for supper," replied Holmes.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I hadn't thought that far ahead yet," said Mrs. Hudson with a shrug. "I really can't say."

"Mrs. Hudson, dinner is in an hour," said Holmes, looking puzzled. "I would think that now would be as good a time as any to choose an entrée."

"Well, I do have other things on my mind, Mr. Holmes," she said, nodding at her kitchen. "Other things that need to be done. Your meals aren't always the highest priority."

"Well, naturally," said Holmes. "But, surely they are your dinner as well."

"I'm not very hungry yet, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson. "I daresay that I'll make a sandwich when I am. But, I have some mending to finish for my niece."

"Mending for your niece?" repeated Holmes, still looking bewildered.

"Yes, for my niece. She has so many little children, and not enough time to do the mending. I help her out whenever she needs it. And I have an enormous pile to work on. I must do that before anything else."

"But, what about dinner?" asked Holmes.

"Well, if you're hungry, I daresay that you and the doctor can make yourself something. Unless you'd rather go out to eat."

"I wouldn't think of going out."

"Then, I daresay that you will need to make yourself something to eat if you are indeed that hungry."

Holmes pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

"Holmes, I'm not going to make you dinner."

"But, Watson," protested Holmes. "My culinary skills are practically nonexistent. Surely you don't want me to poison you with my lack of culinary experience."

"But, Holmes, I'm really not that hungry."

Holmes threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I don't understand you two," he said with a sigh. "Surely you need the occasional meal."

"Of course we do, Holmes," said Watson evenly. "But I'm just not hungry enough to cook at the moment."

"Is this some sort of conspiracy? I apologized to Mrs. Hudson after I broke her china."

"I would recommend," said Watson, his eyes twinkling slightly. "That you purchase her a new teapot to replace the one that you broke."

"Do you really think that will help, Watson?" asked Holmes.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

* * *

"Oh, why, Mr. Holmes!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, accepting the beautiful, blue china teapot that Holmes had offered her. "It's beautiful! Thank you ever so much!"

"You're quite welcome, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, looking a bit hopeful, but apparently not daring to say anything more.

Mrs. Hudson knew what he was waiting for, and she set the teapot down on the table, still admiring it. "It's so lovely."

"I'm very glad that you like it. I thought that it was a passible pattern myself." Holmes looked slightly cross at her. "Would you possibly be persuaded to cook for me?"

She smiled. "Are you on a case, Mr. Holmes?"

"As it happens, no."

The smile grew. "Of course I will cook for you, Mr. Holmes."


	11. Serendipity

**The December 11****th**** prompt as assigned by I'm Nova: Serendipity**

* * *

Forensic science

A brilliant detective

A loveable associate

Psychology

* * *

The start of a genre

Hercule Poirot

Lord Peter Wimsey

Albert Campion

* * *

The original is best

They pale in comparison to

The genius of one

Sherlock Holmes

* * *

Serendipity

The one, the only

Sherlock Holmes

Birth of a genre

* * *

**Yeah, not sure how I feel about this one.**


	12. Black Ice

**The December 12****th**** prompt as assigned by Poseidon - God of the Seas: Black ice**

**Author's Note: All Italic quotes are from ACD's Adventure of the Three Garridebs **

* * *

Treading on black ice

An illusion of safety

Concealing such wrath

* * *

"_In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots."_

* * *

A confrontation

This is like all the others

Armed and dangerous

* * *

"_I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh."_

* * *

A gunshot rings out

Through the smoke I see him jump

Registering shock

* * *

"_There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head."_

* * *

Watson stumbles back

His leg buckles and he falls

My pistol goes up

* * *

"_I had a vision of [the man] sprawling upon the floor with blood running down his face…"_

* * *

And I strike his head

The man who dared to strike him

My mind reels and swears

* * *

"_You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"_

* * *

I tear at the cloth

Getting past the barrier

That covers the wound

* * *

"_The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking."_

* * *

Guilt floods through my veins

I curse the name of the man

Who has shot Watson

* * *

"_For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain."_

* * *

I can't feel concern

It is so much more than that

I can feel terror

* * *

"_You are right. It is quite superficial."_

* * *

My breath comes in gasps

As I get a look at it

A mere scratch is all

* * *

"_If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."_

* * *

I face the gunman

Terror replaced with anger

Meaning what I say

* * *

_"It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of the loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask."_

* * *

Thankful he is safe

Blaming myself for the wound

A man shot Watson


	13. The Cliff

**The December 13****th**** prompt as assigned by Rockztar: "Mycroft, hearing the news go his brothers death, funded his funeral, but something goes wrong that will throw poor John over the edge (literally or not? Your choice)"**

* * *

He was very aware of the scent of the flowers. Lilies, he was fairly certain. Their sickeningly sweet scent

was so overwhelming that it made him want to gag. The white flowers looked so cheerful next to

the pictures of the dead man. It wasn't right. It was as though the flowers were downplaying

the death. They made it look as though it didn't matter. And he hated it. He wondered

why Mycroft had made the decision to include the flowers at all. He couldn't avert

his gaze from the sickening plants. Sickening. The word ran through his head

over and over as though it was mocking him. And he hated it. He hated

the fact that the flowers looked so beautiful. He hated the way that

their scent overpowered him. He hated the way that the

perfume made him feel dizzy and ill. His bad leg

buckled underneath him. He held on to the

chair to keep from falling over. This was

a weakness. And he cursed it. Cursed

the fact that a flower kept him

from being strong for the

dead man. His dead

brother. "Holmes.

Why?"


	14. Chemistry

**The December 14****th**** prompt as assigned by Alice Wright: Holmes investigates the mysterious disappearance of his chemistry set and its replacement.**

* * *

"Watson!"

I cast my newspaper aside with a sigh of annoyance as I heard the familiar voice bounce its way up the stairs to my bedroom. Knowing that it wouldn't do me any good to ignore him, I slowly got to my feet and made my way downstairs to the sitting room. "Yes, Holmes?" I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice, aggravated because he had interrupted a rather stimulating article that spoke of a scandal between a lord and his fiancé.

I opened the door to the sitting room, expecting to see Holmes sitting in his normal chair, pipe in hand. He had taken on a case earlier that morning. Something to do with Sussex, I believe. Even though he had initially seemed quite interested in the case, his current manner suggested otherwise.

He was sitting at the table that normally housed his chemical equipment, his face tight and angry. "Watson, will you take a look at this? Just look at it!"

I moved forward, trying to seeing what in the world he could be referring to. But I wasn't certain what it was, as the table in front of him was completely empty. "Look at what?" I asked, knowing just how foolish the question sounded. "I don't see anything."

"Exactly the point, Watson!" exclaimed Holmes, jumping to his feet and pulling his long dressing gown tightly about his thin shoulders. "Exactly the point. My chemical equipment has simply disappeared. Without a trace." He paused, giving me a cynical look. "I don't suppose that you have any idea what happened to it." It was an accusation, rather than a question, and I knew it.

"What in the world would I want with all of your chemical playthings?" I asked. I sat myself with a shake of my head. "I assure you that I had nothing to do with it, Holmes."

"That's precisely what the guilty party would be inclined to say." Holmes still looked supremely aggravated. "I can't understand this," he said, throwing his arms up in the air. "How could it have simply vanished?"

"Well, aren't there any clues?" I glanced over the bare tabletop as though I hoped to be able to find something that he had missed in his search.

"If there were any clues, as you put it, I should hardly require your assistance in this matter, Watson."

"Very good," I said dryly. "This isn't like you, Holmes. Can you really not find _anything_?"

He pursed his lips, his eyes still traveling over the empty table. "I require this equipment immediately, Watson. Whoever was foolish enough to remove the equipment must have known this."

"Undoubtedly."

"Well, what am I to do now?" he asked. "I cannot continue this case without the proper equipment."

"Surely there's somewhere else that you could go, Holmes. I'm sure the lads at St. Bart's wouldn't object to your working in the labs."

"That is beside the point, Watson!"

"Perhaps," I said with a sigh. "But I don't see what you plan to do otherwise. Perhaps the disappearance of the chemical equipment has something to do with the case that you are currently working on."

"Impossible."

"Holmes, I do so wish that you would stop acting so childish."

He scowled. "I do not take kindly to my belongings being stolen from my own house." He moved back over to the table and gestured grandly at the polished surface. "I am not completely without a hint. The person who took it was obviously a man, as is apparent by the fact that only one person was involved in the removal of the equipment."

"How can you be so sure of that?"

"I do so wish that you would use your eyes," he said in a tone that mocked my previous words. "Observe the carpet. I believe that I can reasonably eliminate your muddy boots, as they are currently downstairs and stowed away in their proper place. You would not wear them in the sitting room in any case. The footprints are too large for a woman, and their style and shape belongs to the shoes of a man. He was also quite strong, and yet he was delicate, as there is no broken glass to suggest that he was careless enough to break the equipment before he had removed it from the room."

I stood, trying to get a better look at the footprints. "Presumably, the man was of a reasonably tall height, judging by the size of the footprints. A bit heavy as well, I daresay."

"Very good, Watson. What else have you observed?"

I frowned. "I don't see anything else," I said hesitantly.

He sighed. "Then you have missed the most vital piece of evidence that the man left behind."

"And what is that?" I asked.

"The fact that all of this so called evidence was indeed planted."

"Planted?" I repeated in surprise.

"He wanted us to think that it was a man very like the one that I just described to you. He did not want us to know who really took the equipment. He hoped to fool me."

"But you know who it is," I observed.

"I do indeed."

"And who was it then?" I asked, waiting for what was surely going to be an obvious solution.

He just shook his head. "It will be apparent to you. I daresay that the chemical equipment will be returned to us. This very night in fact."

"How can you be so sure?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I am always certain, Watson."

* * *

"Good evening, Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes looked up, his expression more than slightly guilty, at the sound of his brother's voice. "Good evening, Sherlock." His hands quickly found their way into his pocket, trying to have nothing to do with the task that they had just been accomplishing.

"I take it that you found it amusing to rob me of my best chemical equipment."

"Amusing? Certainly not, Sherlock."

"Then what possible motive could you have? I don't take kindly to people removing my things from my rooms without my consent."

"I'm aware of it," said the elder Holmes brother dryly. "I don't suppose that an alternative theory has crossed your mind."

"Alternative theory?"

"An alternative theory that I was in fact doing you a favor."

Holmes frowned. "Pray, elaborate."

Mycroft gestured to the table that was now covered in newly repaired chemical equipment. "You didn't really think that I was going to make you continue using such shoddy equipment, did you? I had it repaired. Only took a couple of hours. It was meant to be a Christmas surprise."

Holmes' eyes widened, just slightly. "I see," he said, clearly flustered by this unexpected development.

Mycroft nodded. "I do hope that that means that I am forgiven, dear brother?"

The younger brother allowed himself a smile. "Yes, I do believe that I can forgive you, brother mine."


	15. Illustrious

**The December 15****th**** prompt as assigned by Ennui Enigma: Use the phrase "tears in a bottle"**

**Another experiment in part poetry, part ACD. This time, all quotes are from "Adventure of the Illustrious Client"**

* * *

"_MURDEROUS ATTACK ON SHERLOCK HOLMES"_

I cannot describe

The feeling of shock

"_I have a confused recollection of snatching at a paper… and of standing in the doorway of a chemist's shop while I turned up the fateful paragraph."_

I can't understand

I cannot fathom

"_We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which has left him in a precarious position."_

What? Precarious?

But what does that mean?

"_The attack was made by two men armed with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body, receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious."_

Holmes? Beaten with sticks?

That damned Austrian.

"_The miscreants who attacked him appear to have been respectably dressed men who escaped from the bystanders."_

And the men escaped

Gone without a trace

"_No doubt they belonged to that criminal fraternity which has so often had occasion to bewail the activity and ingenuity of the injured man."_

A fraternity.

It is such a farce

"_I had sprung into a hansom and was on my way to Baker Street."_

And I curse myself

For I was not there

"_The sufferer was wide awake, and I heard my name in a hoarse whisper."_

His voice will break me

I can't look away

"_A crimson patch had soaked through the white linen compress."_

Blood soaked bandages

Tears in a bottle

"'_All right, Watson. Don't look so scared,' he muttered in a very weak voice. 'It's not as bad as it seems.'"_

His voice is so soft

But his words comfort

"_Thank God for that!"_

I feel such relief

Such a prayer of thanks

"_I am a bit of a single-stick expert, as you know. It was the second man that was too much for me."_

His tone makes me laugh

Extraordinary

* * *

**Getting caught up as we speak! Hope to have the last two days up by this evening, so that I can start doing one day at a time again. (;**


	16. Seaonal Spirit

**The December 16****th**** prompt as assigned by Poseidon – God of the Seas: Seasonal spirits**

**Therefore, I present to you a sonnet (yeah, I know that has nothing to do with the prompt and the word "therefore" isn't really needed… I digress)! We'll see how this goes. (;**

* * *

They say that Christmas is inside the heart

They say it is a time of love and cheer

And it is up to all to do their part

We can create a time to hold so dear

The spirit of the season is so bright

And we can hear the children laugh and play

As they anticipate the Christmas night

I watch Irregulars this very day

The little ones so full of Christmas joy

I can't help but feel a bit of sorrow

Watching their invented game and their toy

For they will feel the joy of tomorrow

I cannot bring myself to feel delight

My memories will always taint this night

* * *

**Yay sonnet! This was rather more melancholy than I had anticipated. I think that I will leave it up to the reader to decide the circumstances behind the speaker's sadness. **


	17. Thinking

**The December 17****th**** prompt as assigned by The Inner Titan: A typical train of Sherlock's thoughts in a day.**

**A little apprehensive about this one. I struggled a lot when coming up with what exactly to write. I do hope that my humble offering will suffice. This is harder than it looks! **

* * *

London. In a tranquil state. How odious. No. Not odious. Loathsome. Yes, I do believe that's the word.

Newspaper. Dull. Suspected scandal. Bah, the police 'suspect' nothing. He's off with another woman, and she knows it. Mysterious death down by the docks. Obvious suicide. Petty advertisement for a maid. Another advert for an employer. Not remotely suited.

Breakfast. Unnecessary. Eggs overcooked. Mrs. Hudson in a hurry. Must have overslept. Quite unlike her. Watson won't be pleased if I don't eat. Quite possible that he'll find another reason to be displeased. Decide. After weighing the possibilities. Breakfast is unnecessary.

Scolding. Watson's tie is crooked. To the left side. Normally on the right when he'd in a hurry. Coincidence? Interrupted by something. Dark circles. Slept very badly. More weight on one leg than the other. Wound pained him. Rained last night. Old war wound. Refused to take medication. Unable to? Supply running low. Due at the surgery. More medication is at hand. Cut on lower half of his face. Still bleeding, though only slightly. Didn't bandage. In a hurry. Definitely interrupted.

Irrelevant. Watson in no mood. Going out. Back at suppertime. Limps as he walks. Can't hide pain on face. Words useless.

Experimentation. Must complete this. A life certainly hangs in the balance. A man hung. A man acquitted. Can't be tried… Measurements. So precise. No margin for error, certainly. A drop of citric acid. No more. Must react with the vitriol. That's what stopped it. Clever. Most ingenious.

Telephone. Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade. The answer lies with the vitriol. Stupid. Asking questions. Unnecessary. Utterly. Case solved.

Boredom. Shifting focus to the boredom. No case. Nothing. Nothing. Brain suffering. There is nothing. Nothing. Empty. Can't think. Nothing to focus on. Infuriating. Nothing. Black. I can't. Bored. Beyond. Bored. Nothing. Brain can't. Must have stimulation. Artificial. Watson won't be pleased. Nothing. Bored. Can't. Horrible. Stimulation. Anything. Stimulant wrapped in paper. I shouldn't. Nothing. Blackness. Infuriating. Arguing with oneself. So tempting. Watson at club. Time is on my side. Nothing. Aggravation. A syringe. Frustration. Fingers unwrap the paper. Powder. Prepare powder. Brain rebels. So many messages. But nothing is there. Solution is ready. I shouldn't. Nothing. Repetitive. Unbearable. Syringe in hand. It's so easy. Repetition. Repetition of another kind. Nothingness. Impossible. I can't. Horrible. Delusional. Give me work. Give me the medication. A seven percent solution will do. No more. Why?

Injection. Cooling in my blood. Nothingness melts. The clouds fade. Breathing is easier. Instant relief or thereabouts . Sigh. Relief. The nothing is no more. My mind breaks free. Stagnation away. Eyes close. Clear.

Sleep. Welcome respite. Dream nothing.

Post. Untouched on the table. A promising envelope. Slit open with a knife. Paper knife. Read spidery handwriting. Someone well to do. Presumably. Interesting. Mind begins to work. Client arrives tomorrow. Anticipation.

Watson. Returns home from club. Doesn't see the syringe. Thankful. Inform him of note. See the theories in his brain. He agrees to document.

Dinner. Unnecessary. Watson has none of it. No official case. Dinner. I suppose.

Sleep. Idle chatter. Nothing more. Sleep. Anticipation. A new case. All that I need.

* * *

**I decided to go with short, choppy sentences in order to mimic the speed at which he thinks. After all, if he can both observe and deduce in a few seconds, he really does need to think quickly. That probably doesn't warrant many complete sentences, and I don't think that many people always think in complete sentences anyway. They probably don't think in as many fragments as Holmes either, but Holmes is a special case. (:**


	18. The Doctor

**The December 18****th**** prompt as assigned by Aleine Skyfire: Holmes has a brief encounter with an enigmatic man who calls himself The Doctor…**

**-nods- Pure fun! In the form of a sonnet!**

* * *

How strange. The appearance of a blue box

It now stands on the corner of the road

And now a rather strange looking man knocks

With a colorful scarf with stitches sewed

So that the scarf is longer than his height

His curly hair obscured by a large hat

His smile flashes out into the night

Holmes watches him in silence on the mat

"I say, Sherlock Holmes," says he with a beam

"Why, it is such an honor to meet you.

Marvelous, not in my wildest dream

I just wanted to make sure that you knew.

That a mind like yours is rarer than gold.

And your mind, sir, you should always uphold."


	19. Silent Night

**The December 19****th**** prompt as assigned by The Inner Titan: Silent Night**

* * *

Baker Street at night

Is anything but silent

Much to its chagrin

~221B~

Oh tales of mischief

Malice and of merriment

Never a dull tick.

~221B~

For during the day

The things that boys get up to

Quite astonishing

~221B~

Wisteria Lodge

And the Bruce-Partington Plans

The Naval Treaty

~221B~

The strange Dancing Men

A splendid Blue Carbuncle

Resident Patient

~221B~

Greek Interpreter

The Man with the Twisted Lip

Most peculiar

~221B~

And for each odd case

The poor flat can only sigh

Ludicrous humans

~221B~

How many others

Must deal with their occupants

Making explosions?

~221B~

Other flats do not

Others have sensible folks

Nothing like those two

~221B~

Landlady's dismay

These two tenants will remain

A flat's worst nightmare

~221B~

Silent Night, indeed.


	20. Christmas Gifts

**The December 20****th**** prompt as assigned by Poseidon – God of the Seas: Christmas gifts at Baker Street**

**Another 221B!**

* * *

"Holmes, I am certain that Mrs. Hudson will appreciate whatever you give her, provided that it doesn't have the tendency to explode."

Holmes paced up and down in front of the fireplace, his motions quick and deliberate as he went. He scowled; the expression was no doubt meant to look willful, but the effect was lost as he tripped over the hearth rug. "It's easy enough for you to say that, Watson," he said. "But I haven't any idea what sort of gifts women enjoy."

"Well, what did you get her?" I asked, glancing over at the methodically wrapped package on the table.

"Does it matter?" asked Holmes dismissively. "She won't like it."

"I don't see why you're getting all worked up about this, Holmes," I said with a shrug. "I know that she will appreciate the gesture."

Before I could say anything more, the door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson herself. I nodded at Holmes, trying to communicate that it would be better to get it over with.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson," he said, as he handed the package over.

"Why, Mr. Holmes! It's absolutely lovely!" She exclaimed with joy as she opened her package. The gift was obscured as she reached out and kissed Holmes on the cheek. The wrappings fell away to reveal a breadbox and Holmes blushed.


	21. Odd Gift

**The December 21****st**** prompt as assigned by The Inner Titan: Running out of ideas**

**Or… How Watson really came to own the gift that is seen in Granada's **_**The Cardboard Box. **_**True story. –sage!nods-**

* * *

"I say, Holmes, I must admit that I had my doubts when I saw this incredible piece. But, I'm quite pleased to say that I was wrong."

"You look quite debonair when you wear it," returned Holmes with a dry chuckle.

Watson pulled the folds of black fabric tightly around himself so that he could feel the warmth it offered. He pulled his legs up, enjoying the feeling of the blanket-like article of clothing. "I was quite impressed when I saw that it was a blanket with holes for my arms. It's an ingenious idea, really."

Holmes pursed his lips, taking in the appearance of a very cozy Watson sitting before the fire. "I really didn't think you'd like it quite so much." He decided that it might be best not to mention the fact that it was quite bizarre to only see Watson's head peeking out from underneath the black, fuzzy drapery.

"Whatever possessed you to choose it in the first place? It's really quite extraordinary."

"Mrs. Hudson suggested that department store," said Holmes with a nod to the blanket's packaging. "I can tell you that I debated on what to give you for ages. The poor shopkeeper was running out of ideas when I saw that very blanket draped over a shelf. And I decided that it would be best not to take up any more of the man's time, so I decided to purchase the very… thing that you are wearing." He gave up trying to think of a name for the blanket thing.

Watson chuckled. "What did they call this? A blanket with armholes. Just think of it! The man who came up with this was really a genius. Incredible."

Holmes paused. In reality, the shopkeeper had admitted to him that the blanket contraption had been an accident. A young student hadn't been paying attention when sewing a blanket. The armholes had been an accident. There had only been one armhole when Holmes had gotten his hands on it. He had attempted to fix it, trying to make it into a normal blanket. But sewing wasn't a skill that he yet possessed, and somehow he had managed to create another armhole. He had had nothing else to give Watson, so he had had no choice but to give him the strange blanket. "I don't know what they called it."

"I think… that it should be called a snuggie." Watson nodded. "Yes, a snuggie."

"A snuggie?" Holmes blinked, wondering if he had misheard.

"Yes, I do think that's best. A snuggie."

"Then, if that is what you wish to call it, a snuggie it will be."


	22. Glow

**The December 22****nd**** prompt as assigned by ImaLateBloomer: Glow**

**And I present to you… Glowing: A limerick **

* * *

Certainly, I am a keeper of bees.

But you've no idea the bugs that you'll see when you're down on your knees.

I tend to my garden and watch the bugs glow.

Beetles, cockroaches, worms, fireflies put on a show.

So many incredible things for my eyes to see.


	23. Irregularity

**The December 23****rd**** prompt as assigned by Lemon Zinger: Ten Word Challenge – Flicker, Isolation, Struggle, Arrogant, Forgive, Collapse, Suffering, Majestic, Crash, Scar**

**Ten Word Challenges: You are assigned ten words and you attempt to use them all in a scene. You can change the tense of verbs or add endings. (Example: cough can be coughed, or fear can be fearfully) **

* * *

It cannot be denied that the habits of Sherlock Holmes must be described as irregular, to use a single word. Whether it be the times that he takes his few meals or the hours that he keeps to the house, it is usually safe to assume that these behaviors will not be consistent. As the reader may imagine, it is not always easy to live with a man of such unpredictability. I will say that I have grown used to and forgiven his shenanigans over the years, greatly by necessity. Had I not, I would not be writing these words today.

However, even in the midst of such mayhem, there is a certain rhythm that one grows accustomed to when it comes to the ways of even Sherlock Holmes. It is naught more than a feeling, but such a feeling speaks the world.

One evening, I sat alone in our rooms at Baker Street. The night was growing steadily older, and I found myself enjoying the relative peace that accompanied the solitude. It was not often that I was fortunate enough to experience such quiet, and I had a mind to delight in it to the fullest extent possible. Mrs. Hudson was enjoying the atmosphere as well; any time that she did not have to manage with Holmes underfoot was surely a blessing. She had brought me my supper at an early hour, leaving me to enjoy a few hours peace reading before the fire.

There are few things in life that I enjoy more than a good book and a roaring fire. I love the way that the firelight flickers upon the smooth pages of the book, making the shadows dance and sing. It's almost as though the books are more potent when the reader is under the spell of a fire. The fire provides isolation; there is nothing between the reader and the world of a novel. You are free to lose yourself within the pages.

I had been sitting in this manner for several hours when I suddenly became aware of the time. It was much later than I had thought, and I realized that it would behoove me to get to bed shortly, as I was expected at my practice early the next morning. As I marked my place in the book, I realized that Holmes surely had not returned to the flat. He would have made some noise to attract my attention, but I had heard none. The clock said that it was getting on to eleven o'clock at night.

Naturally, it was not unheard of for Holmes to stay out far past this hour. In retrospect, I had no reason to become anxious at this point. But there was some feeling that plagued me, something that told me all was not well. This was not the first time that I had experienced such a state. I tried to shake the sensation off. I was tired, no doubt, and my imagination was still running rampant from the time before the fire. That was surely the cause for such sentiments.

I set the book on the table that rested near my chair. Getting to my feet, I made my way over to the window so that I could look out over the street. Baker Street was just as quiet as one might expect for such a late hour. Very few people could be seen, and those who were visible were only hurrying to their place of residence. The occasional intoxicated man staggered his way past, but that was not unusual, I regret to say. They do make such a fuss, and it upsets Mrs. Hudson greatly, for she is always afraid that they will find a way into the house. I doubted that this would be the case tonight. In any case, the men that I had seen were barely able to stand upright; I had a feeling that housebreaking was beyond them tonight.

The street lamps had been lit earlier in the evening, and they sent their gas glow over the cobblestones. The occasional couple congregated underneath the beams of light, presumably whispering their gossip under the impression of a cover of darkness. A ginger cat darted across the street, appearing to be hissing furiously at an unknown assailant behind him, judging by the way his head jerked and twisted angrily. Probably some unlikely fellow had accidentally stepped on the poor thing's tail.

I don't know why, but at this point, something caught my attention. At a second glance, it appeared to be the cause of the cat's misery. A man, presumably as intoxicated as the rest, staggered across the street, one hand at his midsection. He appeared to be in great pain. Thinking to myself that it was his own fault for his affair with the drink, I turned away. Then, there came a knocking at the front door, and I paused.

"Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. Her voice sounded nervous, and I honestly couldn't blame her.

I opened the door to the flat, standing at the top of the stairs so that I could see her. She was robed in a dark colored dressing gown, the edges slightly frayed. Her grey hair was styled in a braid that went down her back, and sleep was still in her eyes. She looked as though she didn't quite appreciate being roused at this hour. "Do you know who it is, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked.

"I've no idea, Doctor," she said, hugging herself as though to keep warm. "I expect it's one of those men who comes knocking for some drink. They'll be gone shortly."

I wanted to believe that, but before I could speak further, another knock sounded. This time, the sound was more urgent than before, but the volume of the sound had faded, just enough to be noticeable. "I'll answer it, Mrs. Hudson," I said, coming down the stairs. "Just stay back a moment while I see who it is."

She nodded, moving farther back in the hall so that she was sitting on the bottom of the stairs. "Do be careful," she cautioned, her motherly nature showing through.

I nodded, unbolting the door and turning the key in the lock. The door was pulled open to reveal the very man that I had seen reeling across the street in such a state. I knelt down next to him, trying to get a look at his face, my medicinal nature taking over. "Are you all right, my lad?" I asked, my eyes taking in a man who appeared to be tall, thin, and unhealthily pale. Not quite as inebriated as I had been anticipating.

The unfortunate man took a breath, his head turning to face me. I felt my heart skip a beat. "Holmes!"

It was indeed Sherlock Holmes who lay collapsed in a heap on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. His eyes were closed; well, screwed shut would be a better description. Deep, labored breaths sounded from his chest, and, for once, he seemed unable to utter a word.

"Holmes, are you all right? What's happened?" I nodded over my shoulder at Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson, get my bag and bring it up to the flat. It's in my bedroom next to the bed."

She nodded, her face full of horror as she stared at what was left of her lodger. Then, she appeared to awaken, as if out of a dream, and she hurried up the stairs.

Holmes had barely moved since I had opened the door. He groaned softly, gesturing to his midsection. I took that as a direction, and I peeled back the elegant, black coat that he so favored to see a great deal of blood that now stained his white shirt. "Oh, Holmes," I said softly, shaking my head in dismay. "What have you done?"

He still refused to answer, and I knew that I couldn't treat him here on the doorstep. "Holmes, I'm going to have to get you upstairs. Do you think you can walk that far if I help you?"

I detected a nod. Not daring to wait any longer, I gently pulled his arm around my shoulders, guiding him to his feet, and taking a look up the stairs. There had never seemed to be so many stairs before. Taking a deep breath, we began to ascend.

* * *

Once upstairs, I gently deposited him on the sofa. He groaned aloud, his head moving back and forth as he tried to regain some composure from the dreadful trip up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson handed me the medical bag, and I opened it, searching for a few basic tools that I knew I would certainly require. Anything else would have to be obtained as I diagnosed his injuries. I turned back to the injured man, gesturing for Mrs. Hudson to help me remove his coat and scarf. He fought us as we did; although I could see that he was in pain, I scolded him gently for struggling. "Holmes, this is for your own good. I need to be able to see your injuries in order to treat them."

He didn't respond, though he did appear to be forcing himself to relax under my touch. As gently as we could, we removed the clothing that obscured the injury. To my relief, the wound that was leaking blood onto his starched shirt was not as deep as I had originally feared. "Holmes, are you hurt anywhere else?" I asked him. "Mrs. Hudson, would you be good enough to get some hot water?"

She nodded, hurrying out of the room.

"Holmes?" I asked again, cutting away the bloodied fabric from his midsection.

"Shoulder," he murmured, his eyes closed again.

I exhaled, shaking my head. "Holmes, you might have mentioned that before I dragged you up the stairs. I would have been more careful. Why didn't you at least give me a sign that it was painful?"

He appeared to smirk, just a bit. "You were fortunate enough to choose the correct arm to sling across your shoulders."

I shook my head at him, my fingers probing toward the indicated shoulder. "You are incorrigible, Holmes, you really are." There was no blood coming from the shoulder, but I could tell in an instant that it was dislocated. "This isn't going to be pleasant."

"I've already taken something for it," he murmured, eyes still closed. "Go right ahead."

"You knew that something like this would happen?" I asked, sitting back on my heels for a moment. "You knew so you took a dose of morphine with you?"

"Very perceptible," he said, a touch of arrogance in his voice. He opened his eyes, staring expectantly at me. "Go right ahead, Doctor. I won't get in your way."

"Can you sit up under your own power?" I asked. "If you can't, we can just as easily wait for Mrs. Hudson. A few more minutes won't make that much of a difference in the long run."

"I can sit," he said, struggling into said position. "I don't want her here for…" he trailed off, but I understood his meaning perfectly.

"All right then," I said, helping him sit up. "Do you want something else for the pain before I begin?

He shook his head. "Just get on with it."

My fingers found their proper positioning, and I got the grip that I needed. "I'm going to count to three," I said, trying to make this as easy as possible on him. "One. Two. Three." On three, I acted, my hands popping the shoulder back into position. Even the dose of morphine couldn't dull the pain, and he cried out through gritted teeth, the sound echoing eerily. I hated to cause him such pain and suffering, but we both knew that it couldn't be helped. The deed done, I gently helped him lay down once more.

His eyes were shut tighter than before, his breath labored and little sounds of pain escaped from his unwilling throat. "Very good, Doctor," he growled. "Very good."

"I don't suppose you care to tell me how you managed to get yourself in such a state." I said, trying to offer him something for his shoulder, but I was refused.

"It's quite a tale," he said through gritted teeth. "I suppose you'll want to write it up for the Strand."

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my patience at him. "If you're going to be like that, you might as well stitch up your own injury."

It was an empty threat and we both knew it. By now, Mrs. Hudson had returned with the water and the cloths, and she handed them over to me. Treating the water with an antiseptic, I gently began to clean away the blood. Holmes was silent as I worked, his eyes following my every move.

"There are some strange characters that spend time around the Majestic hotel at this time of night," he said softly. "Strange, and quite rough as well."

"What were you doing out in the first place?" I asked, continuing to clean.

"I wasn't on a case, if that's what you were getting at," he said with a sigh. "I was merely out for a stroll."

"At this hour of the night?"

"Quite. I find that the night air stimulates my mind with quite desirable results, don't you?"

I chose not to answer that. Now that the wound was clean and the bleeding had stopped, I was able to examine it thoroughly. "I was wrong," I said shortly. "You don't need stitches. But you'll need to rest for a few days or you'll definitely need them. I'll just bandage you up for now."

"I was assaulted," he said. "Although I suppose that much is obvious, even to you. They were nothing more than a common street gang. Looking for an easy target."

"I don't suppose that you were an easy target."

"I'd like to think so," he allowed. "There were three men in the group, and they managed to overpower me by sheer force. Cowards. The largest man had a scar over his right eye; I recognized it as the work of a close friend of mine. He should know better than to go assaulting just any gentleman who walks down the street."

"No doubt," I said, tying off the bandage around his midsection.

"They attacked me with knives, as you can see."

I could see, not just by the deep wound that I had just bandaged, but a number of cuts on his face and hands.

"They were obviously not skilled at stealth, for they managed to get in the way of an empty hansom, causing it to crash into the sidewalk. You can imagine the reaction from the driver," said Holmes, chuckling darkly. "Well, they threw me into the hansom, resulting in the dislocation of my shoulder. The hansom driver was furious at this point, and he took no notice of me, for he was chasing after the ruffians. I managed to leave the scene before the police arrived, not wishing to create a scene for the newspapers. I made my way back to Baker Street as quickly as I could manage, though it was not easy."

"Holmes, I really don't understand you sometimes," I sighed, handing the basin of bloody water and rags to Mrs. Hudson, who took them out of the rom. "The way that you manage to get yourself into this kind of trouble, even when you aren't on a case… it's just incredible."

He shrugged, his eyelids beginning to lower in sleep. "Keeps things interesting," he murmured sleepily. "Never a dull moment and all that."

I stared at him for a long moment, knowing that I had lost him to sleep for the night. Then, I shook my head, and made my way out of the room. "Good night, Holmes," I said softly, closing the door behind me and going up the stairs to my bedroom.

As has been said, the irregularity of the habits of Sherlock Holmes can be quite trying at times. But nothing is more trying then when there is seemingly no reason for such irregularity. Particularly when they lead to circumstances like this.


	24. Father Christmas

**The December 24****th**** prompt as assigned by Aleine Skyfire: Young Sherlock sets out to prove to Mycroft that Father Christmas exists.**

* * *

"Sherlock, how many times do we need to go over this?"

"Mummy wouldn't have told me if it wasn't so. Mummy never lies to me."

"Mummy didn't exactly lie. She just stretched the truth."

"But, Mummy wouldn't have told me if it wasn't so. Mummy wouldn't stretch the truth."

"Sherlock, you're too old for this kind of nonsense. There is no such thing as Father Christmas and you know it."

"Then how did I get that shiny, red bicycle for Christmas last year? I never told Mummy that I wanted it but I wanted it so very badly!"

"Did it ever cross your mind that I told her?"

"How did you know? I didn't tell you either!"

"Sherlock, it was obvious to everyone. We all saw you fawning over it in the shop windows."

"I think that you're the one who is lying. Brothers lie. Mummies don't."

"Oh, Sherlock. I know that it's hard to accept, but you are eight years old now. You're too old for such childishness."

"Well… I think that you don't have the same definition of Father Christmas that I do. Father Christmas doesn't have to be a real person, Mycroft."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Father Christmas is real inside of everyone. He has helpers all over the world. When you saw me wanting that bicycle, it wasn't you. It was Father Christmas."

"Well, if that's what you mean…"

"Yes, Mycroft. Father Christmas is real and a real person every time there is joy and happiness. And love."

"I suppose you're right, Sherlock."

"Besides. I wanted a blue bicycle. Not a red one."


	25. Gifts

**The December 25****th**** prompt as assigned by cjnwriter: Holmes throws a Christmas party for the Baker Street Irregulars.**

* * *

The little boy holds the gift close

His eyes gaze at the shiny paper

His smile knows no restraints

He looks afraid to tear the paper

The bundle so beautifully wrapped

He looks at me, wanting permission

I nod, and the smile continues to grow

His fingers pull the paper away

His face glows with excitement

The paper falls to the floor

He holds the toy train to his chest

His hands stroke the polished wood

His smile could swallow the train whole

And his gratefulness warms my heart.


End file.
